The booty call

I didn’t know what would happen when he showed up. I was nervous. I hoped I would be able to control myself. But he looked more fantastic than I remembered. Dear God, why did he have to come back into my life just when I thought I was over him? And why was I letting him come back??

So I begged him to leave. We can’t do this, I said. Please, just go. You know how badly I want you, but I just can’t. He was completely indifferent to my pleas. He just sat there and watched me. He knew he always made me weak in the knees and he was enjoying this. I hated him for it. I loved him for it.

Who was I kidding, I knew I’d submit to him. More than once. I always did. And he knew it.

And ohh, it was soooooooo good. I was shocked by my raw animal passion for him. Before I knew what was happening my eyes were rolling back in my head and my toes were curling. Primitive grunts escaped my throat. Every cell in my body ached for him. He rocked my world. I couldn’t speak but in my mind I screamed “YES YES YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS” over and over. He satisfied me utterly and completely. He fulfilled primal needs I didn’t even realize I had.

I would have done anything for him.

I felt like I was in a fugue; I was intensely aware of the sensation of us coming together but it also seemed otherworldly, like an out-of-body experience. Sublime. And so right.

For a while I basked in the afterglow. This is how it should always be, I thought. What was I so afraid of?

And then, slowly, the glow faded. I looked over at him and realized that these encounters of ours could never amount to anything more. I loved him desperately. But our relationship was obsessive—so intense, so all-consuming, it would destroy both of us if we stayed together. With us it was all or nothing. A healthy long-term relationship would be impossible for us.

With tears in my eyes I pushed him away. I’m so sorry. I wish I were stronger.

As I turned to leave, I looked at him one last time. I snapped a quick photo of him so I would have a memento of this special evening.

Goodbye, my darling mashed potatoes. My beloved spuds. My delicious, buttery master. You are absolutely wonderful, but I can’t be with you. I lose control whenever you’re near me. I’m afraid you can never be anything more than an occasional booty call.

177 responses to The booty call

Oh, LouAnn, I know the pain you must be in with the potential demise of the Hostess cupcakes. These days I have a reasonably healthy relationship with Hostess cupcakes, but only after a tempestuous on-again, off-again for many, many years. Stay strong, my friend.

At first I insisted on protection, but as I got really into it I threw caution to the wind. I know it was stupid, but I couldn’t help myself. And today I’m paying the price with an outbreak of fat and bloat.

Don’t we all have that love/hate relationship with carbs? Thanks for capturing it so eloquently. I’ll never eat mashed potatoes the same way again. (Actually, I won’t because I made them in the Kitchen-Aid yesterday—my new toy— and they were so f’ing good. So f’ing good that I may have to return the Kitchen-Aid or resolve myself to gaining 15 pounds!)

I have a KitchenAid too, but I’ve never made my mashed potatoes with it. I do mine with the old-school potato masher. Frankly, I’ve never met a potato I won’t eat. That love-hate relationship with the carbs—it’s a story for the ages, java. Sigh…

My mash has some minor lumps in it, as it should. I don’t understand people who make basically a potato puree and called it mashed potatoes. But you know Ina, she’s out of touch with the real people. And thank goodness you didn’t have to worry about getting your alcohol needs met with a broken jaw. For medicinal purposes, of course.

You will be so very jealous, Weebs. I am on a special diet for my GI system. I am supposed to eat spuds. The Irish girl in me rejoices two to three times a week as I listen to my nutritionist. Yum… (It almost makes up for all the things I can’t have.)

Potato made the rounds to a lot of homes, last night. Potato doesn’t respect you, me, nobody. And I’m forced to only use the name Mr. Potato. No first names, no familiarity. It’s so very wrong. But, oh so right. I feel you, Weebs (well, not literally. Clarify that for Mr. Weebs)

I knew it. I KNEW IT. I knew he got around. He never mentioned how many other people he had been with but I knew it had to be a lot. I know what you mean about the anonymity factor—it took me a long time not to feel utter shame. I’m glad you feel me. You know, not literally.

I envy your dilemma! There are so many foods I can no longer eat and tht includes dairy-rich mashed potatoes. There were plenty of spuds whee I was but I limited myself to a small serving of candied yams and saved my lactaid pill so I could savor a thumbnail sized piece of pumpkin pie.

Some academic reading I’m engaged in suggests that one only abuses that which has a cachet of exoticism to it (Spain, he declares with the confidence only a late 18th century moral philosopher can bring to bear, has very few who go on wine binges). He may have a point here; were you beset with a profusion of ‘tater, were you constantly tripping over Yukon Gold while making a late-night washroom run, were you pushing importunate Russets aside while searching for car keys, the magic would likely drain from the relationship.

…not, of course, that the initial week or two would be anything other than a mad romp that might even see Salzkartoffeln running about the place, frightening the neighbours.

It’s true. The familiarity would make our encounters less passionate, less meaningful, I’m afraid. But you’re right, ravensmarch, in that if there were Yukon Golds (which were featured in last night’s booty call, by the way), Russets, or some other potatoes constantly around me, the first few weeks would involve a passionate yet sickening frenzy the likes of which no man or woman has ever seen before. And now that you’ve mentioned Salzkartoffeln, I want some. Thanks a lot.

I can see how the dual images don’t really work well together. I’m glad he enjoyed his mashed potatoes, but here’s hoping he doesn’t understand the more adult nature of the relationship until he’s much older.

I’m writing this reply in a Valium-induced haze. I’ve had my whole world turned upside down with your reply, Clown. I had to breathe into a paper bag just to keep from passing out. But now that the initial shock of your revelation has worn off, I have a few comments:

a) What the FUCK??? Who the fuck hates mashed potatoes???
b) You have no soul.
c) Oh yeah?? Well, mashed potatoes hate you too.
d) What the FUCK?? What kind of freak hates mashed potatoes? Were you injured by mashed potatoes as a child? Because that’s the only reasonable and acceptable explanation.

I have to re-evaluate my entire world view now. I’m going to drop some stuff to make sure gravity really exists.

Very true, Nigel. It makes me wonder what the reaction was in England when the first potatoes were planted there. As far as I’m concerned, potatoes are right up there with the wheel, fire, and the steam engine, among the best things ever to happen to mankind.

Mashed potatoes are good for you – high in potassium and a good source of fibre. Don’t blame the potatoes really it isn’t their fault…it is his cute creamy side-kicks of butter and sour-cream. Damn their creamy seductive goodness! Now I am craving an afternoon rendezvous with sour cream…mmm just one little quick chip-dip with maybe a little double-dipping when no-one is looking!

For me the best is thin sliced potatoes drizzled with olive oil and gently tossed with salt and pepper for a little spicy fling…then eagerly spread flat on a baking sheet.
Get your oven all hot and toasty and pop those little devils in for some roasting delight. (450 for 15-20 minutes until lightly browned…oh heaven. I am drooling on my keyboard…)

Oh, Madame Weebles. It was all over for me as I read “My delicious, buttery master”.
I had to read your post twice. Then I just sat back and breathed deeply until my fingers stopped quivering. And now, all I can think of is having my own mouth-wateringly, creamy revelation. But I have to be patient for others to come home and help me prepare it. And that hours away! No fair … I want mine NoW!!!

Maybe I’ll just keep re-reading to pass the time. And live vicariously through you.*sigh*

OK now you’re just torturing me. The wife has been delayed at work due to a crisis, so I now have to wait until tomorrow to fulfill my mashed potato fantasy. This week shall see us united. One way or another, that bowl of buttery goodness shall be mine!